Good Weather For Digging

A grey day, Grey in two states. 

Moods of the overcast stillness, that often ebbs into a clouded sunday, leaves a brooding wind to make the summer temperature all the more noticeable.

This greyness is passing, it holds you to bed for that extra hour, it makes distance just slightly further away and the effort required for action doubled so. But this lasts only as long as a morning would allow. Time, forever a flighty arrow, drifts toward breakfast with accuracy. Even in missing breakfast it will invariably strike lunch, or glance the bastardisation of an afternoon meal no portmanteau may yet fathom.

The second Greyness is quieter.

It is metaphorically describable as ‘Good weather for digging’. 

Not gardening or an artistic statement regarding capitalism, but the drudgery of making a hole. 

Even removing is making, in a regard, and the exact definition of ‘making’ opposes the syntax of this act.

Thump, a shovel into dirt. Buzzing of cicadas in a constant C-sharp -or even a D-flat when they inject a little feeling into their annual summertime screech- underscore the calm of this twofold greying Sunday.

Passing wind can almost be seen as it lumbers so very slowly through the overhang of a treeline. 

An aimless wind that could sit down at any moment, abandoning its own existence for the sake of lethargy. That truly encapsulating laziness.
It’s content.

A steady rhythm of thumps and scratches, Balendup ground, removed from the clay and sandstone of Sydney, makes easy digging. 

The twang of rock, once engaged with erosion in an eternal game of hide and seek, shifts a downward strike of the shovel, pushing momentum forward and signaling time for a break.

But why dig a hole on a Bi-greyed sunday? Well it’s good weather for it. Good weather not to make whole reason but to make a reasonless hole.

To play with words like jamming Lego into Duplo, to slip into a book never onto one, to wait with only the weight of gravity. 

When is a hole finished? That is the second greyness. To dig further and further downward, past the water pipes and the point at which a grave digger would stop. Down to where the earth is cool and where only the most shy worms hide themselves.

But that doesn’t answer the question. What is the second Grey? When in a hole finished?

Easy.

When it’s whole.

You can’t refund time.